Tommy Thorn Marked

by D. E. Kinney

  Once in C & C, Captain Gant was greeted by his longtime friend, and the two walked through the admiral’s private, albeit auspicious briefing room to the conference table.

  “We will be over Titan shortly, Admiral.” The captain spoke to the younger admiral while looking out over the ship through viewing ports that covered the entire forward section of the room.

  Admiral Ty was once Gant’s junior, but politics and a series of bad campaigns had, thus far, relegated him to the permanent rank of captain—still, captain of the newest super battle cruiser in the fleet. A command, received thanks to Ty, that he had hoped would someday finally lead to his promotion. But now, with this assignment to Terran…

  “Drink, Gant?” Ty asked.

  “No, thank you, sir,” Gant said, turning from the viewing ports to face the now-seated admiral.

  Ty motioned for Gant to be seated. “I know you’ve had, well, concerns, over this mission. The only thing I’m at liberty to say is that it came directly from the new grand marshal.”

  “Ethos?” Gant refused to sit. “Why would he send the best fleet in the Empire to the edge of the galaxy? There’s nothing here!”

  “I know you long for an honorable campaign, Gant, one that will earn you a promotion. A promotion that I believe is long overdue.”

  “Thanks, Ty, but with all due respect—what the hell is the fleet doing taking orders from the Corps?” Gant paused. “Ethos! Come on, Admiral,” Gant continued.

  “It’s Grand Marshal Ethos, Captain.” Ty raised his voice a bit.

  With that, Gant moved to the chair and sat down. “You’re right, Admiral. Forgive me. I owe my command to you, sir. I’m, as always, yours to command,” he said, shifting his gaze to the Star Force symbol engraved on the massive black-mirrored conference table.

  Ty’s tone softened. “Look, my old friend. First of all, you earned this command and, well, I don’t like taking orders from a ground pounder any more than you do.” Ty paused to exchange smiles with the captain before continuing. “I know how this assignment looks…”

  “It looks like a fool’s errand, Admiral,” Gant politely interrupted.

  The admiral raised a hand. “No matter how it looks—remember, it’s Ethos’s plan. A plan I fear may end up very badly for our beloved grand marshal,” Ty continued.

  “And if it does?” asked Gant.

  “I believe I’m next in line for fleet admiral,” Ty said.

  “And what if we succeed with his plan? The Vanguard fleet is the best in the Force, Admiral,” Gant said proudly.

  “Then we will have earned the respect and gratitude of the marshal, and no doubt the Empress herself,” Ty said and leaned back in the beautifully sculptured, red conference chair. “Either way, my friend.” Ty paused. “I believe this mission, regardless of its outcome, may very well earn you that golden command baton, and a place at the admiralties.”

  The captain stood and moved back to the large viewing ports, distracted for a moment by a pair of Starbirds as they took up security positions over the fleet, now framed by the awesome beauty of the ringed planet. “I think I will have that drink, Admiral.” Gant finally said.

  Ty smiled, nodded, and moved to the dispenser station.

  Tommy finished securing the high collar of his flight suit and, grabbing his helmet bag, turned to Gary. “You all set?”

  Gary, with helmet in hand, replied, “Waiting on you, Commander.”

  Tommy smiled and led them out into a crowded hall, en route to the lift stations.

  “You’re in a good mood,” Tommy said, looking over at Gary.

  “Got my planet leave approved.”

  Both men stopped in front of the closest lift just as the door slid open.

  “Heading to Mars?” Tommy asked.

  “I sure am, can’t wait—may be able to show off my Bird,” Gary said as they stepped into the lift.

  Tommy scanned the other officers already on the lift for pilot badges. It had become a habit to look for other flyers, and finding none, Tommy couldn’t help but notice how everyone always moved away from members of the Marked. Such was the mystic of the unit, a mystic that was, by all accounts, encouraged by its members.

  Of course they did look good in their dark blue flight suits bearing the symbol of the Marked, low-slung blasters, and Ki-blades—topped off with a pilot’s badge adored with a blood stone.

  The blood stone, sometimes called the living stone, was a perfectly clear diamond with a ruby droplet in the center, much like a heart—awarded to fighter pilots with ten or more combat kills.

  Gary noticed the usual uneasiness as well, but he resisted smiling as it would have been out of the perceived character for the Marked.

  “Alpha deck,” Tommy commanded the lift’s onboard control unit.

  “Heard from Sloan,” Gary said to break the silence.

  “How is he?”

  “He’s good. Back at Calder for a leadership class,” Gary replied.

  “Bet he loves that,” Tommy said as the lift made a stop.

  “He said Eldger got promoted to colonel and assigned to headquarters on Tarchein,” Gary added.

  “Couldn’t happen to a better guy.” Tommy paused as the doors cycled open.

  “Excuse me, sir,” one of the officers said, leaving the rather confining space.

  “Wonder if that redhead is still at the Colder?” Tommy asked and grinned over the use of colder for Calder.

  “Well, if she is, Sloan didn’t mention her—but then you know Steel.” Gary smirked.

  Tommy stepped back as the hatch slid closed.

  “Sloan did have some disturbing news though, Tommy,” Gary continued, “about Vance…”

  “Commander Vance?” Tommy asked.

  “His Darkstar has been missing for over thirty days—last contact was a reported engagement. The whole crew is listed as KIA.”

  Tommy looked up at the flashing indicator lights of the lift, momentarily shaken. He could still remember the last time they had spoken on the Renegade, and how he had shrugged off the written reprimand for risking his ship to rescue him and Sloan’s team. Should have gotten a medal, he thought.

  “I know you two got close,” Gary continued.

  Tommy shook his head and cleared his mind of the image. “These thing happen in our line of work,” he finally said.

  The lift stopped at Alpha deck, and both men moved into the battle cruiser's cavernous flight deck to a waiting low-profile, open-hover shuttle.

  “Two-one-nine.” Gary spoke to a control unit located at the front of the small transport device.

  “Two-two-three.” Tommy did not bother to look at the unit as most did, but moved directly to an empty spot on one of the two parallel padded benches across from several Vantek Scat pilots.

  The Vantek were powerfully built, short of stature aliens with body coverings that resembled thick fleshy porcupine quills and deep-set, orange-brown eyes. They were right on the fringe of a Class A Tarcheinoid, considered by most to be a bit slow in decision making, and were therefore never assigned to fly any of the really fast movers like fighters.

  The transport quietly glided past rows of various types of Star Force ships, most of which were being attended to in some way by small hover mechbots and ground personnel.

  “Stand clear of launch tubes one through six. Prepare to launch strike. All nonessential personnel exit Alpha deck. Repeat Alpha deck is now in condition yellow—all nonessential personnel are instructed to exit,” the hanger control chief broadcasted over the PA system. Hanger control seemed to be constantly making some sort of announcement, adding to the already seemingly chaotic atmosphere of the bay.

  Tommy, through habit, glanced up toward the interior end of the hanger deck at the controllers moving about behind elevated large clear steel panels, and noticed one of the Scat pilots looking at his name tag and unit badge.

  “To what do we owe the privilege of having the famed Marked flying cover for Vantek?” the pilot snarled.


  The shuttle coasted to a stop in front of several Scats, which were already in the process of loading fully armed Vantek warriors.

  Scats were short-ranged, heavily armed troop transports, each capable of carrying up to forty fully armed warriors.

  “Just make sure and hit your tine over target. Leave our butts hanging out in a Titan sandstorm and you'll get the privilege of being blasted by a Marked,” Gary interrupted, not wanting Tommy to have to respond.

  Several of the Vantek pilots began moving toward the shuttle’s exit step, all except the now-indignant pilot, who stood to confront Gary.

  “You Herfers just do your job, and we'll do ours,” he said, moving his right hand up to a dagger attached to the left forearm of his flight suit.

  In a blur Tommy was up, out of his seat, his blaster pressed firmly against the Vantek’s ample waist.

  “If I ever hear you use the word Herfer again, I’ll open you up and use whatever color goo runs through your veins as finger paint.” Tommy pushed the blaster forward to emphasize his point before looking over his right shoulder. There was Gary. He had moved from his spot and now held his Ki-blade at the throat of one of the other Scat pilots, who had made the mistake of lingering at the shuttle’s exit.

  Tommy gave Gary a half smile and returned his attention to the alien at the end of his blaster. “Now I want you to get to your mud thumper, and the only words I want to hear are ‘Yes, Commander.’ You understand me, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, Commander,” the heavyset pilot said. He eased his hand down and away from the dagger and backed off the shuttle.

  Tommy stood for a moment before, after two full twirls, letting his 203 slide smoothly back into the holster and took his seat, followed by Gary.

  “I think I made a friend,” Tommy said as the shuttle pulled away.

  Both chuckled.

  “I will say—that Vantek’s got some brass,” Gary said.

  “He'll need it all today, Cruiser. Jayram raiders can be very nasty.”

  I'm ready for nasty,” replied Gary, and after a moment added, “He’s right about one thing though…”

  Tommy picked up his helmet bag and gave Gary a puzzled look.

  “Why are we flying cover for the Vantek?”

  Tommy shook his head as half a dozen Tarchein unmanned assault pods, called Blisters, hover-taxied past the shuttle toward launch tubes.

  “Not sure, Cruiser. Just make sure you keep your head on a swivel today.”

  “No sweat, Commander. You know how cautious I am,” Gary said.

  Tommy put his hand on Gary's shoulder. “Yes, I know, that’s why you worry me!”

  “Alpha deck is Orange, stand by to launch space craft,” control announced.

  Approaching two rows of polished navy-blue Starbirds, the shuttle slowed to a stop, and both men gathered their helmet bags and stepped down onto the hanger deck. Gary paused to acknowledge Tommy’s crew chief, waited for the shuttle to silently speed off, and headed toward his fighter.

  “Bag ’n’ tag, Lieutenant. Bag ’n’ tag,” Tommy's crew chief yelled over the whine of engines and the commotion of the hanger deck.

  “Don't humor him, Chief, “Tommy pleaded good naturedly as Gary stopped and turned around.

  “Make it a day of days, Commander,” Gary yelled back.

  Tommy nodded but said nothing.

  “A day to remember!” Gary continued, holding his arms at his side, palms out, as if to say, “well…”

  Getting no response from Tommy, Gary repeated the gesture.

  “A day to be Marked!” Tommy finally shouted.

  Gary smiled, turned, and thrust his fist in the air while walking toward his ship, leaving Tommy, shaking his head, to turn and greet his crew chief.

  “How's my bird?” Tommy asked while handing over his helmet bag.

  Tommy's crew chief, a grizzled veteran, energy stick dangling from his lips, flashed his usual grin. “She's up ’n’ up, sir.”

  Tommy, running his hand along the smooth underbelly of the fighter, spoke without turning. “Thanks for getting those last two kill marks up, chief.”

  The chief purposely stood back to admire the twenty-eight red victory symbols displayed below Tommy’s name under the cockpit, and then, taking a long satisfying drag from his e-stick, said, “No sweat, Commander, wanted to make sure everyone on this tub knew the score.” And then, after a pause, he said, “Human twenty-eight, most of them—nothing.”

  Tommy grinned and pointed to the e-stick. “those things are gonna kill ya chief.”

  The chief returned the smile, pinched off the smokeless stick, placed it in his pocket, and said, “And fighting Starbirds won't…”

  Tommy laughed and continued his ritual of a preflight walk around while activating the small command and control band integrated into the right forearm of his suit.

  The Starbird was a big fighter, so big, in fact, that he was able to walk under and inspect the opened weapons bay without stooping. Of course, this also meant that he was unable to inspect the dark matter diffuser intakes, but then again, he knew that between the chief and his horde of mechbots, several of which tagged along on his preflight checks, that the ship was ready to go. The walk around, he knew, was just a formality, but Tommy thoroughly enjoyed these times before climbing in. Savor the moment, he thought.

  Stopping briefly to check a recently repaired latching mechanism on the right main gear door, Tommy was tempted to pat the little floating tech on the top of his metal—well, on the top, but thought better of it. He was after all Marked. Still, it did seem as if these little hovering technicians really cared about his safety. And then, glancing at his wristcomm, checking for updated engine start and launch times, and satisfied that all was well, Tommy moved back to the waiting crew chief.

  “Finally got the modified dark matter injector core online, Mr. Thorn, but the comm link amp still checks good on the ground…er, deck,” the chief said.

  Tommy nodded while punching up some buttons on the command and control band, activating high-intensity, red flashing exterior position lights, lowering the boarding ladder, and opening the large clear canopy of his fighter.

  “I'm telling you, chief, that amp is going to go toes up. Just pull the damn thing,” Tommy said as he started up the ladder, followed by the chief and one of his hovering minions.

  “Sorry, sir, but you know we need data to pull and rep,” the chief said while adjusting a restraining strap. “The MO figured it was the usual—short between the headsets,” the chief chuckled.

  Tommy even heard an amused squeak from the mechbot as he settled into the snug cockpit and put on his helmet. “Well, maybe I'll squeeze the maintenance officer’s fat ass in here. Let’s see if he likes going no joy two light clicks from nowhere,” Tommy said while checking the flight suit’s helmet seal.

  The chief, finished with Tommy's auto strap and plug-in, just nodded before backing down the ladder, leaving the little mechbot to make final checks on the escape pod and shielding interface.

  Seeming satisfied, the little mechanical tech rotated toward Tommy for a moment before descending back to a prestart staging area. He—it lingered just long enough for Tommy to give it a grateful pat, which he felt was somehow actually appreciated.

  “Launch tubes active in sectors lima and tango,” the PA system blared out as the three Scats hover-taxied past Tommy’s Starbird toward the launch tubes. He gave them nothing more than a casual glance, already busy pulling up the fighter’s displays and flipping a series of highlighted projected switches to awaken his fighter.

  “Hello, Mr. Thorn, welcome aboard,” the onboard computer, now online, said.

  “Hello, Roat, how are you feeling today?” Tommy asked the computer.

  “I am pleased to report that I am fully operational. All systems are online and ready to go.”

  “Glad to hear it. Say, Roat, could you run a quick check on your comm amp for me?” Tommy said, trying to sound nonchalant as he continued preparing t
he ship for launch.

  “I have run a full spectrum of preflight diagnostics…”

  Tommy, while listening, used hand signals to let the chief know he was ready for engine start.

  “Clear for start—roll one, Commander,” the chief responded over Tommy’s headset.

  “My communication amplifier has a less than seven percent chance of failure, well within documented limits, I can—“

  Tommy, not wanting to argue the point, finally gave up. “Just complete the prelaunch checks, get the graviton gen online, and spooled up one, Roat.”

  “Control checks, chief,” Tommy said, looking out over the fighter’s long tapered nose, two of the six integrated blaster ports just visible.

  “You’re clear, sir,” the chief said.

  “You’re up, Roat, run a full control cycle check,” Tommy commanded and started bring up tactical information.

  “Control check initiated,” Roat said, even as the control stableators, directional vanes, and thruster nozzles deployed from recessed stowed positions and began to cycle through their full range of moments.

  The stableators, embedded into either the large delta wing panels or vertical control vanes, rotated into a number of different angles, giving almost unlimited directional control to the variable pitch thrusters. These small powerful thrusters, located both along the fuselage and within the stableators, provided for maximum maneuverability with a minimum amount of applied force. And while the Bird’s massive wing panels and control surfaces provided little in the way of lift, they were quite susceptible to drag when operating within atmospheric conditions, and as such were designed with smooth tapered lines. Lines that made the Starbird look as good as it flew.

  Tommy watched as the stableators, now fully extended, speed brakes, and control surfaces moved in a preprogrammed ritual—letting his mind go to thoughts of Vance.

  “Even weightless things have to be pushed against air,” he had once said to a rather confused Alterian. He smiled at the thought. “Forgive me, old friend,” Tommy said softly, still sure it was his fault that the fighter pilot was assigned to fly Darkstars. Although, he thought, if it wasn’t for Vance and the Darkstar, we would have all died on Vargus…